Cynthia MacLanley
by AbRaCaDaBrA
Summary: It's the 1850's, and Hogwarts has a new Quidditch star - a Gryffindor Beater who's ready to take the field. A tiny young girl, that is. Friendships stand the tests of time and becoming teenagers. DONE! Please read and review.
1. 1848: The Beater's Daughter

1848: The Beater's Daughter  
  
Donovan MacLanley, a large man with a wild beard of Saxon-gold, swung the small Cynthia in front of him onto the thick oak shaft of the broomstick. She was bundled in so many layers of fuzzy wool, dyed in shades of red and black, that only her sharp blue eyes and an unruly tuft of yellow hair showed.  
  
"Ye ready, me lass?" her father asked. He held her tiny, six-year-old hands around the broomstick underneath his own.  
  
"Aye!" she called, nodding happily.  
  
"'Old on tight, 'tis a windy day!"  
  
Donovan pushed off the hard ground, raising the broomstick two, five, ten feet up in the air. He held it there, steady. "'Ow are yeh doin'?" he called.  
  
"Go on, Papa!" she squealed. "High'r! Fast'r!"  
  
"Ooh, yeh've asked fer it, Cyn!" The father smiled broadly and shot the broomstick up, swerving into a left-hand turn and snaking back and forth a hundred feet above the ground.  
  
"Wheeee!" Cynthia shouted out. Donovan laughed heartily, the wind whistling in his ears and did a loop-the-loop.  
  
"Papa!" she cried, "can I lif' up me hands?"  
  
He moved his hands from hers and saw that her little hands were white- knuckled fists on the broom handle. Carefully, he held onto her torso. "'ell, go on, then!"  
  
Her father was now doing slower laps, about fifty feet from the ground, but their speed was still a constant howl in their ears. First one tiny hand, and then the other, unwrapped from their hold, and carefully, carefully, Cynthia released her grip on the handle. Once she got used to holding onto the broomstick with her legs, she cautiously began to raise her arms away from the shaft. Soon, she was waving around her arms, shouting "BAM! WHAM! Take tha', yeh Bludders!"  
  
Donovan laughed again, and, making sure she was secure, sent the broom into a tight corkscrew. At first, her screams were of surprise, and maybe a hint of terror, but he knew that they had quickly turned into ones of delight when she began to giggle uncontrollably. "Yeh're flyin', me lass! Yeh really are!"  
  
"DONOVAN ANGUS MACLANLEY!" came a piercing scream from the other side of the moor. Surprised, he put his hand to his eyes, and made out the dot to be his fretful, shrewish wife, Elfrida. He quickly brought the broom down to ground level and stopped it close enough to Elfrida to see her face screwed up into an angry red knot and her wand clenched in her fist.  
  
"Mama!" greeted Cynthia. Donovan picked her up and stepped off the broom, putting his daughter to her feet. She wobbled, a little nauseous, and clung onto his blue plaid robes. "Mama, did yeh see me? I was a-flyin'!"  
  
"Aye, I saw yeh, me angel," Elfrida said to her child sweetly. Readjusting her black, hawk-like eyes to her husband, her face and manner instantly changed. "Donovan, what're yeh doin' to the poor child? What'd we say abut flyin'?" she demanded.  
  
"'The lit'l un isn't teh be flyin' 'til she's o' Hogwarts age'. I kno', I kno'. But she's such a bright lit'l un, Elfrida! Yeh should've seen 'er up there!"  
  
"I saw 'er up there, an' I didn't like it!" shrieked Elfrida. "The poor thin' hangin' on fer dear life!"  
  
"She wasn't hangin' on, she didn' even hold the thing fer a while," countered Donovan. "Yeh mark my words, she'll be a Quidditch star when she does get ter Hogwarts."  
  
"I 'ant to be a Beater, like Papa," said Cynthia meekly, half hidden by tartan.  
  
"Oh, well, i'n't that just fine? She wants to be just like 'er Papa," said Elfrida cruelly, glaring at Donovan. "No 'onder she'll not do 'er chores an' help out aroun' the house, just like her Papa!"  
  
"Cynthia, yeh best be getting back ter the house. Go on, now," announced Donovan, freeing her from his robes and sending her off to the house behind Elfrida. "Do yeh have to be speakin' like that in front of the lit'l un?" he asked his wife softly.  
  
"Oh, I'm just getting' started, Donovan MacLanley!" she warned sharply.  
  
"Elfrida, yeh can't stop talent like Cynthia's got -"  
  
"Talent? Yeh call flyin' around on a stick o' wood with yer friends talent?! An' how do yeh know what she'll be like from un lit'l flight?"  
  
"I kno', Elfrida! I've got a knack fer this kind o' thing! She's really improvin' -"  
  
"IMPROVIN'!?" spat Elfrida, raising her wand menacingly to her husband's bushy beard..  
  
Donovan knew that this was going to take a while to explain. 


	2. 1853: The Letter

1853: The Letter  
  
There came a scratching at the window early in the morning. Elfrida tapped the spoon in the breakfast porridge with her wand, and it slowly stirred itself as she opened the latch. A small barn owl swooped into the kitchen and deposited three letters on the table before flying off to its roost in the attic. Elfrida turned on the lamp, giving herself more light than the pale dawn's glow to read by.  
  
The first was a letter from her older sister, whom Elfrida despised. She tossed it into the waste paper basket. It was probably another request for some of her famous recipes, which Elfrida would never give to anyone for any amount of Galleons, save perhaps for Cynthia when she grew up.  
  
Elfrida sighed. Cynthia was such a handful. She always had imagined having a well-mannered, quiet little girl who would play with her magic dolls in the corner and learn enchanted embroidery. Instead, Donovan seemed to be raising her into a wild spitfire with very few of the delicate, feminine qualities that the slim, black-haired Elfrida treasured.  
  
The next letter was for Donovan, from one of his Quidditch friends. What did they call themselves? The Banchory Banished? His father was on a rowdy team, called the Banchory Bangers, that had been dissolved in 1814 for some ludicrous action. The team had played on in secret, and now it was the next generation that continued to play Quidditch scrimmages somewhere in secret. Elfrida found it rude that Donovan would be so attentive to the illegal sport, and hoped that when Cynthia was born, he would give up Quidditch. The opposite seemed to happen, and now Cynthia looked like the leader of the next generation of the Banchory Banished.  
  
The last letter was thick, and in handwriting she didn't recognize. She realized that it was addressed to "Cynthia MacLanley, Moor Outside of Aboyne, Aberdeen, Scotland", and turned it over to see that the purple wax seal was the Hogwarts crest.  
  
"Cynthia! Donovan! Come quick! She's go' 'er letter!"  
  
Donovan appeared first, bleary-eyed and his wild yellow hair and beard pointing in every direction. He yawned, and moved out of the way of Cynthia, who was clomping down the steps as quick as she could in her pink nightgown.  
  
"Oh, let me see, Mama!" Cynthia reached for it, but Elfrida held it out of her grasp.  
  
"Just a minute, just a minute, Cynthia! Yer can't be goin' off ter Hogwarts so impatient-like. What er the other 'uns goin' to think of yeh?"  
  
"Let 'er open it, Elfrida," countered Donovan, taking it out of his wife's hand and putting it into his daughters. Elfrida didn't say anything, and Donovan suspected she figured that was going to happen.  
  
Entranced, Cynthia broke the wax seal and slowly slid out the two slips of parchment, reading them with relish in the lamplight.  
  
~x~  
  
Miss Cynthia MacLanley,  
  
We are pleased to announce that you have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You will find an enclosed list of required materials for your school year.  
  
Term begins on September 1st. We are currently finishing a railway from Kings Cross Station directly to school grounds for those with less magical families, but this year it is advised for those who can to go to school a more practical way to avoid volume in the new platform.  
  
We hope to see you, and if there are any questions or concerns, please send us an owl.  
  
Antonio Scarelli,  
  
Deputy Headmaster  
  
~x~  
  
She looked at her parents, who were both smiling proudly, and handed them the letter. She then slid out the next piece of parchment and continued.  
  
~x~  
  
First years students will need:  
  
Clothing  
  
- Three work robes and school uniforms as needed, available in most wizarding apparel stores  
  
- Winter cloak for colder weather  
  
- Dragonhide gloves  
  
Equipment  
  
- Wand  
  
- Pewter cauldron, size 8 1/2  
  
- Sturdy school bag  
  
- Ink, quills, and ample parchment  
  
Schoolbooks  
  
- "Magical Theory" by Amelia Resdin  
  
- "Conjuration and Spelling Primer (Year 1)" by Morgan Zirgonio  
  
- "Important Dates and Advances in Wizardry" by Jakobee Fryer  
  
- "From Twigs to Teaspoons; Beginner Transfiguration" by Imeda Switch  
  
- "The Field Guide to Magical Fungi and Plantation" by Frederick Galasborg  
  
- "Polarities in Enchantment; an Introduction to Dark Magic" by Anmarie Scelestus  
  
Students may also bring pets, magic or otherwise, as long as they are not distracting and/or vicious and/or messy.  
  
Quidditch tryouts are held on the second week of school.  
  
~x~  
  
"Papa! Quidditch tryouts on the second week o' school! Can I do it?"  
  
Donovan smiled, and answered, uncharacteristically, "Why don't yeh ask yer Mama, Cyn?"  
  
"Well, Mama? Can I?"  
  
Elfrida sighed for a second time, looking at the letter she held in her hand. For a long time, she, and her husband and daughter, said nothing. Finally, she looked at Donovan calculatingly.  
  
"What's the name of yer broom-maker?"  
  
"Grimstone. 'E's down in Southern 'nglund. Finest brooms yeh'll ever see."  
  
"But 'e's far away?" she asked.  
  
"I could Disapp'rate an' be back in an hour."  
  
"Yeh know I dun like yer App'rating."  
  
"Elfrida, I 'aven't splinched in ten years."  
  
"Yeah, I know. Well, yeh're gonna have to hope yeh don't this time."  
  
He looked at her, surprised. "I kin go?"  
  
"'Ell, o' course! How else is Cyn gonna get her broom fer Hogwarts?"  
  
"Yipee!" squealed Cynthia, jumping up and down. "I'm gonna get me broom!"  
  
"Elfrida, yeh've made me year," said Donovan happily, hugging his wife.  
  
"Yeh, yeh, I know, I know," she replied, smiling weakly, as if she didn't want anyone to get any ideas. "Cynthia, get out yer blue dress an' yer good cloak. We'll be a-gettin yer Hogwarts things in Di'gon Alley terday while yer Papa gets yeh a broom." Cynthia jumped again in happiness and quickly clomped up the stairs into her room. "An', Donovan - git 'er somethin' good. I know the Sickles can git a lit'l tight aroun' here, but she really des'rves the best, aye?"  
  
"Aye," he answered, turning off the stove and putting some porridge into a bowl. "Just a quick nip an' I'll be off."  
  
"Yeh don't spend teh much time at this Grimstone's."  
  
He slurped up the porridge. "Nay, Elfrida. I know what I git teh do. Yeh have a fun time in Di'gon with Cyn, all right?"  
  
"I 'ill. I can' wait teh see the lit'l un - with a wand!"  
  
"She's not the lit'l anymore," he replied, smiling, and he opened their secret compartment with a few taps of his wand to reveal a small pile of Knuts and Sickles. He took a handful and placed them carefully in an inside pocket of his green and black plaid robe. "I'll see yeh later, Elfrida."  
  
"Take care, Donovan." She kissed her husband on the cheek and watched as he Disapparated with a bright pop.  
  
Cynthia appeared. "Is Papa gone?" she asked.  
  
"Aye. He'll be back when we're in Di'gon. Eat yer breakfast an' we'll go by Floo." She put a small bowl of porridge in front of her daughter. "I think yeh'll make a fine Beater, if I do say so meself."  
  
The eleven-year-old looked at her mother incredulously. "Really?"  
  
"Well, yeh've gotter be, what with all this practice Papa an' yeh are doin'."  
  
Elfrida smirked as Cynthia giggled into her breakfast, glad that the secret was out. 


	3. 1853: The Alley and Allie

1853: The Alley and Allie  
  
"Di'gon Alley!" Cynthia jumped into the green fire, her blonde hair freshly braided. A few seconds later, she emerged from the large fireplace that lay on the end of Diagon Alley, built just for wizard transport. Her mother was waiting for her.  
  
"Come, Cynthia, yeh dun want teh be blockin' the fi'place," her mother warned. She took her daughter's hand and quickly moved her out of the way of two brawny teenage warlocks who soon appeared afterwards, both of whom paid no attention to the much smaller girl. "See wha' I mean? People can be such snots 'ese days."  
  
Cynthia, however, was listening to her mother just as carefully as the two boys had been. This was her third time in Diagon Alley, and her most recent was nearly three years ago. Save for her parent's friends that would drop in occasionally, and sometimes literally, Cynthia had very little contact with the rest of the world, wizarding and otherwise. The whole street that opened up in front of her, with the quaint little shops overflowing with all sorts of fantastic and magical items she barely knew the names of, seemed to be paved with gold. She let go of her mother's hand and was ready to jump into the thick of it all.  
  
"Do yeh have yer list, dear?" her mother asked, just before the girl was about to disappear.  
  
Cynthia gasped. "Ooh, it's right on the table where I left it teh go upstairs!"  
  
"Cynthia!" reprimanded her mother. "Ach! What am I goin' teh do with yeh?" She shook her head and thought for a moment. "'Ell, I dun want teh waste the Floo. Yeh're just gonna have teh find some other firs' year's an' look at it."  
  
"I'm sorry, Mama," said Cynthia meekly.  
  
"Dun worry 'bout it. Least I'm not the one that's going teh have teh find someone, aye?"  
  
"Aye, Mama." Cynthia frowned and looked around the street. The cobblestone path contained nearly twenty people, and none of them looked her age. She looked back up at her mother, but she had found one of her friends and had already begun talking to them.  
  
"Oh, Abbie, what have you done this time?" a tall man with copper hair was saying exasperatedly. Cynthia looked over at her and saw a lanky boy, much older than she was, freeing his finger from the mouth of a strange animal that looked like an ugly, hairy little man with wings and lots of arms and legs.  
  
"'E star'ed it!" shot back Abbie with a thick Cockney accent, holding the creature in his fist angrily. A second boy came out of the shop behind Abbie, with a stack of books in the crook of his left arm and an open book in his right hand.  
  
"According to 'Magical Creatures of Europe', that's a doxy, or biting fairy," said the much younger second boy. He had the same reddish-brown hair as his father, with thick glasses, and he appeared to be the same age as Cynthia. She was excited to recognize some of the books that he could barely carry as ones on the list, and tramped over to him.  
  
"Oh, shu' UP, Allay!" retorted Abbie, throwing the doxy back into its cage. He closed its door and made a face at it before wandering off to somewhere past the pursed face of his father.  
  
"You be at the gate by noon, or we're leaving without you!" the man called, and, not receiving an answer, turned back to the other boy and sighed. "Well, there goes the father-son quality time I was planning on. I'm going to slip into the Leaky Cauldron to get a little drink, and make sure that Abbie doesn't." The father sighed. "I don't know how your brother gets the grades he does, Allie."  
  
"Don't worry about him, Dad," said Allie cheerfully. He closed the book he was reading and placed it on top of the others he was carrying. The new addition, however, caused the stack to fall over into the street. Cynthia, who was standing next to him, bent down and picked up his Transfiguration and Herbology books, plus two she couldn't make out the titles of, and handed them to him.  
  
"Oh, hello," he said, straightening up and re-adjusting his glasses.  
  
"Hi," replied Cynthia shyly. She could get a little nervous around new people.  
  
Allie scooped up all of his books and held them securely to his chest, while extending his right hand to Cynthia. "My name's Allie," he greeted, shaking her hand firmly.  
  
"I'm Cynthia," she replied, smiling, and feeling a little more comfortable with the boy whose glasses kept slipping down his long nose. He let go of her hand to regain a grip on his books. Cynthia broke the awkward moment with, "I fergot me list. I'm a firs'-year. Kin I see yers?"  
  
"Of course!" he answered, juggling his many books to reach into his pocket. Cynthia suddenly realized that the multitude of books he was carrying would be the same she would have to worry about. He brought out the list, and she looked at it again, relieved but confused to see only six titles on the list.  
  
"What's with all o' yer books?" she asked. He was losing his grip again, and Cynthia deftly relieved him of five of his volumes before he dropped them again.  
  
"Thank you!" he said, pushing up his glasses again. "I'm just getting some extra reading for myself. A little extra knowledge never hurt anybody, right?"  
  
"O' kurse not." Cynthia smiled. She liked this Allie.  
  
"Well, I just got here, and I have a lot of shopping to do."  
  
"Me too," the blonde-haired girl replied.  
  
"Oh, well, then, do you want to come with me?"  
  
"Sur'!"  
  
Cynthia discovered that Allie was half-and-half, his father being a wizard, and that he had been in Diagon Alley many times, and more recently than Cynthia. He led her to Gladrags Wizardwear, where they were outfitted with work robes and the Hogwarts uniform - Cynthia was pleased to no end that the pleated skirts could be worn nearly to the knee, unlike the constricting ankle-length dresses her mother made her wear. Next, they went to Pip Lacobin's Magical Goods to purchase cauldrons, bookbags (to Allie's relief), parchment, and dragon hide gloves. Then, Cynthia got all her school books, which Allie pointed out to her in The Book Bin. Afterwards, they went to Flourish's Fine Inks and Blott's Beautiful Quills, where Cynthia and Allie declared their partiality for the color purple in their ink choices.  
  
They emerged on the street, their bags full of Hogwarts supplies. Judging from the sundial at the end of the street opposite the Leaky Cauldron, by the big fireplace, there were but a few minutes left before Allie had to go home with his father and brother. He quickly guided her to a tiny shop that she had never seen before, which was very dark and dusty inside. Her eyes adjusting to the dim light, he whispered, "This is Ollivander's, the wand shop."  
  
There came a rustling noise from the back of the shop. Abbie, and the two boys that had come through the fire grate after Cynthia, appeared, followed by a wispy old lady holding a wand box in her claw-like hand. The boys shouldered their way over to the desk, where the mummified woman opened a moldy-looking ledger and wrote something in it with an equally moldy- looking quill. "That's five Galleons for the wand, Mr. Androgski," she said, peering at the shortest of the three with her sharp grey eyes. The stocky boy fished around in his pocket and brought out five gold Galleons, which he tossed nonchalantly to her and picked up the wand box. "Do be careful with this one, Mr. Androgski. Just because you break them easily doesn't mean a new one will come to you easily. Remember, the wand chooses the wizard."  
  
Androgski nodded like he had heard it a thousand times before and slid the wand into his pocket, leaving the box behind. He, Abbie and the other boy shambled out of the wand shop, not even waiting for the door to shut to mutter, "God, that place gives me the creeps."  
  
"And, at last, some fresh faces," said the old woman, casting her keen glare downwards to Allie and Cynthia. She looked at Allie extra-carefully, her eyebrows slightly lifted. "Don't tell me one of those buffoons was your brother."  
  
"Unfortunately, yes," replied Allie carefully.  
  
"Ah, well, we can't choose our family, but that's what friends are for, right?" she replied, looking at Cynthia.  
  
Allie smiled.  
  
She rose from her desk. "I am Ms. Ollivander, current carrier of the Ollivander tradition of fine wands since 382 BC. I believe I have serviced your parents, and maybe even your grandparents. What are your names?"  
  
The first-years looked at each other, and then back at Ms. Ollivander. Cynthia spoke first.  
  
"I'm Cynthia MacLanley. Me papa's Donovan -"  
  
"Donovan Angus MacLanley," finished Ms. Ollivander quickly. "A big, strapping lad, I remember him. I do believe he broke his wand a few times in his youth, but I saw the last of him twenty years ago. Fourteen inches, a bit thick, oak, dragon heartstring. Good one for conjuration, is it?"  
  
"I - I think...."  
  
"And your mother?"  
  
"Elfr'da Hastin's."  
  
"They married? Well, I would have never seen it." Ms. Ollivander gazed off into the distance for a minute. "Then, of course, one can never understand the mysteries of love," she added, looking at Cynthia again. "Twelve inches, ash, unicorn tail hair, excellent for quick jinxes. I dare say Donovan's come under one or two in his matrimony?"  
  
"Aye!" Cynthia giggled. Her father lost his fingers, could only speak by clucking, or grew purple ear hair practically every week, due to the very wand Ms. Ollivander was describing.  
  
"Well. What an interesting couple they must be. And you, my dear, need a wand." She stood up from the desk. "Let me go look around back...I think I have just the thing for you."  
  
She went behind a cabinet, where she had emerged before, and Cynthia and Allie had only enough time to steal a quick anxious glance at each other before she appeared with an armful of wand boxes. She placed them on top of the ledger in a neat pyramid and handed the first one to Cynthia as Allie pushed up his glasses.  
  
"Maple. Eleven inches. Unicorn tail hair." Cynthia took the wand from the old woman and flicked it experimentally. There came a tiny poof of smoke, but nothing else happened. Ms. Ollivander snatched the wand from her, tossed it back into its box, and handed her another. "Ten and a half inches. Elm. Phoenix feather. Flexible." A quick wave produced nothing, and Ms. Ollivander quickly replaced it with another. "Eleven inches and a quarter. Beech. Dragon heartstring." Nothing. "Willow. Phoenix feather. Ten inches." Nothing.  
  
Ms. Ollivander put the tried wands away, and looked carefully at the pile still on the desk. "Ooh, I know." She pushed the boxes around and found one at the bottom. "Try this one," she said, handing the box to Cynthia carefully. The blonde opened the box and drew out the wand, her fingers feeling warm and tingly. She swept it upward in a grand arc, and purple and silver beams of light poured from the tip. Grinning, she clutched it as if it was made of gold.  
  
"I knew it," said Ms. Ollivander, taking out her own wand and whisking away the pile of unused wand boxes from the ledger. She turned a few pages and wrote something with the ratty quill, and then looked up at Cynthia. "Thirteen inches, oak, sturdy like your father's. But with unicorn hair, like your mother's." The old woman smiled and looked back at her ledger. "That'll be five Galleons, my dear."  
  
She took up the relocated pile of wands and returned them to her shelves, giving Cynthia enough time to fish out four Galleons and eleven Sickles from her small money-bag. Allie pushed up his glasses and exclaimed "Wow, Cynthia, you've got a wand now!"  
  
"And you will, too, soon enough," replied Ms. Ollivander, emerging from the gloom of the shop for a third time. There came a knock at the door, and Allie's father stepped in.  
  
"Hello, Allie, hello Ms. Ollivander. Have you seen Abbie? It's nearly noon."  
  
"He was just in here," replied Allie. "Dad, I want you to meet Cynthia. She's a first-year too."  
  
"Hi...." she greeted, feeling shy again around new people.  
  
"Call me Mr. D.," said Allie's dad, filling in the silence. He shook her hand, just like Allie did, and Cynthia was sure that if he wore glasses, they would keep slipping down his long nose like Allie's.  
  
Ms. Ollivander looked carefully at Mr. D, and said, "You were that mahogany, phoenix feather one, weren't you, Reynaud? Twelve and a half inches?"  
  
"You know your business, Matilda." Mr. D smiled, and Ms. Ollivander returned it as she handed Allie his first wand.  
  
There was a second knock at the door, and Elfrida walked in as Allie's wand emitted a scream. She looked slightly confused until Ms. Ollivander laughed. "That's not the one," she explained, taking it out of his hand.  
  
"Cynthia, are yeh ready teh be goin'?" asked Elfrida.  
  
"Aye, Mama." Cynthia picked up her school bag full of books and all of her other bags from the shops. "This is Allie, Mama, he's teh un I got a list from."  
  
"Tha' was nice, did yeh say 'thank yeh'?" replied Elfrida, looking at Allie and his father.  
  
"Thank yeh!" said Cynthia quickly, as she followed her mother out of the shop. "I'll see yeh at Hogwarts, Allie!"  
  
"See you, Cynthia!" called Allie, and then he dropped his wand onto the desk. "Ouch! That one burns!"  
  
"That's not the one either," responded Ms. Ollivander, quickly taking the wand and placing it back in the box.  
  
Out in the street, Elfrida took three of the bags from her daughter, and they then walked to the fire at the end of the alleyway. "'Ell, yeh made out li' a bandit, didn't yeh?" Elfrida joked, looking at all the supplies. She reached into her pocket and threw a handful of Floo into the fireplace, stepping lightly into the fireplace with a loud "MacLanley Homestead!" 


	4. 1853: The Broomstick

1853: The Broomstick  
  
Cynthia set down the cauldron, full of her new winter cloak and gloves, onto the living room floor and looked at the other bags of new items admirably. Her mother had gone upstairs a moment before, and she soon reappeared, following a large, wooden chest bound with leather she was floating down the stairs in front of her.  
  
"Yeh kin put yer things in the trunk an' live out o' it fer awhile teh get used teh it, li' I did whee back when I was in Hogwarts." Elfrida used her wand to guide the hovering chest into a corner.  
  
"Tha's huge! I thin' I could live in't!" The eleven-year-old looked out the window wistfully for a moment, her brow furrowed, and then her small, freckled face softened. "Mama, could yeh tell me what yeher like when yeh wen' off teh Hogwarts?"  
  
Elfrida smiled and opened the trunk. "Aye, that's a lung time ageh. Let's see...I'm therty-threh now, I'as twenty-teh when yeh were born, an' yeh were born in 'ferty-the. So, when I'as yer age, that'as 'therty-un. Ach! Twenty-teh years ageh!" The black haired woman shook her head. "Han' me yer book, dear."  
  
Cynthia lifted up two of the textbooks, and then something seemed to come to her. "Mama, where's Papa?"  
  
"I though' yeh'd never ask!" boomed Donovan, jumping out from behind the stairway in a flurry of great green robes. Cynthia shrieked and then laughed, handing the titles to her mother offhandedly. Elfrida grimaced and took the books from her daughter, placing them carefully in the bottom of the trunk.  
  
"Where's the broomstick, Papa?" asked Cynthia excitedly.  
  
"It's outseed. Come on!"  
  
"I'll beh right back, Mama."  
  
"No, yeh won't. Go out an' make sure tha' broomstick don't play any tricks on yeh."  
  
"Aye!" With a nod of her pigtails, Cynthia darted out the door.  
  
"An' Donovan, keep a real good eye on 'er, aye?"  
  
"Aye, Elfrida. Elias Grimstone said 'e had one jus' right fer Cynthia in the back. Finest broom yeh'll ever see. Smooth oak shaft, strong twigs, grea' dir'ction changes, as far as I know - I wanted Cynthia teh beh the first to fly it, yeh know?"  
  
"Is tha' safe!?" Elfrida looked horrified, and Donovan quickly corrected himself.  
  
"Elias flew it 'imself, o' course - yeh're never really the first the fly it, yeh know, unless yeh build it! I jus' wanted Cyn to get teh it before me...yeh know I might just decide I like it too much to give teh 'er." He looked out the window. "'Ell, I better go out there with the lit'l un before she flies the thing away, aye?"  
  
"Aye. Yeh be careful."  
  
"Yeh know I am."  
  
"I mean, tell Cyn that."  
  
"She knows how teh beh safe on a broomstick."  
  
"Oh yeah? An' how, Donovan?"  
  
He looked nervous.  
  
"Never mind. I know yeh've been practicing withou' me knowin'." She sighed. "I can't stop yeh, so yeh can just practice as much as yeh need to keep Cyn happy. Do yeh know wha' I mean?"  
  
"Aye, Elfrida." He opened the door, took a step out, and then turned back to his wife. "An', Elfrida - thanks." He shut the door behind him.  
  
"Yer welcome," she replied to no one, and then began packing Cynthia's things.  
  
~x~  
  
Cynthia was sitting all alone in the open moor, a small dot of grey wool cloak nestled into nearly four acres of nothing but windswept heather and long grass. In her hands lay a broomstick, the sleek, polished oak handle three and a half feet long, with a brush of streamlined ash twigs stained a beautiful dark brown. She could do nothing but run her hands up and down the broomstick in awe, feeling tears of utter joy leaking out of the corner of her eyes.  
  
Donovan walked over to her, his own broomstick in his hand. The earlier model was larger and slower than Cynthia's, and it appeared dirtier and cruder in comparison to the brand new broom. She turned her small face toward him. "'Ow kin I ev'r thank yeh?" she asked in a squeaky voice.  
  
"Yeh kin git on yer Hogwarts team an' play yer best!"  
  
Cynthia beamed, and then it seemed like a dark shadow crossed her smattering of freckles. "Papa?" she said meekly, coming to her feet. "I really want teh play fer me team. But I dun kno' if I'm good enough fer it. I mean, I kin fly, an' I kin hit yer Bludgers rill fine, but I'm just a wee firs' year. I fergot about that until'is mornin'. Nearly all the stud'nts that I c'd seh were much bigg'r than me - 'cept Allie, o' kirse."  
  
"'Oo's Allie?" asked Donovan, intrigued.  
  
"Oh! 'E's a firs' year teh. I me' 'im tehday in Di'gon Alley. 'E's rill smart, an' rill funny teh. We're goin' teh beh the best o' friends in Hogwarts. Righ', Papa?"  
  
She looked up at her dad, clutching her new broomstick anxiously. Donovan squinted and chewed around a thought in his head. Finally, he spoke a reply.  
  
"Do yeh know abou' the houses o' Hogwarts?"  
  
Cynthia shook her head.  
  
"Oh. Alrigh', lemme see if I kin remember properly. There's Hufflepuff, Gryffinder, Ravenclah, an'.one secon', I always ferget this 'un.snake- like.Slytherin. They're differen' groups o' people tha' go teh Hogwarts, an' yeh get Sorted into yer particular house by yer characteristics. Or somethin' li' that. Anyways, I believe i's Hufflepuff if yer loyal an' hardworkin', that was yer mother, an' Gryffinder if yer brave and chiv'lrous. I was in Gryffinder. Then, Ravenclah's fer clever 'uns, an' Slytherins're the sneaky lot."  
  
"What 'un deh yeh thin' I'm goin' teh beh in?"  
  
He shrugged. "Yeh never kno' until yeh get tha' Sortin' Hat on yer head. I'm jus' tellin' yeh tha' this boy an' yeh migh' be in differen' houses. Then yeh've got teh meet others." He scratched his head. "'C'urse, it wouldn't'vr beh a bad idea teh meet others any wehs."  
  
"Papa, is it not righ' that I'm friends with.yeh know, a boy?"  
  
"Of c'urse not! Yeh kin make friends with a rock an' it'c'd beh right. Yeh just do wha' yeh like teh, an' dunt yeh worry 'bout what other's'll say. Same thin' with yeh bein' a Beater. I un'erstand that the odds are kind o' against yeh, but it's not about if yeh get on the team or not. It's if yeh try an' deh yer best, which I kno' yeh will."  
  
The girl grinned, and then looked at the unforgettably forgotten broomstick in her hand with awe. "'Ell, that doesn't mean we kint practice, aye?"  
  
"Aye!" Donovan swung onto his broomstick. "Yeh can test out the broom tehday, an' then later I kin teach yeh about aiming fer movin' targets an' avoidin' others when yer flying."  
  
Cynthia leaped onto the seat and gingerly kicked off the ground. The new broom, much more sensitive than Donovan's, shot up faster than she had ever gone before. "Wheee!" she cried out, quickly taking control of the broom.  
  
Donovan looked up at his daughter and sighed. "I al'ays wanted a son," he whispered under his breath. "Now I dunt even know if I got my wish or not." He grinned at his own little joke and joined the racing Cynthia in the sky. 


	5. 1853: Collision

1853: Collision  
  
"Un more go, Papa," scowled Cynthia, striking the poor, battered Bludger determinedly with surprising power for her size. She drew the broom's nose up sharply, pulling her self-named Bellona higher into the bright blue bowl of the late August sky. Halfway between her and the heather-filled ground, Donovan was ready and astride on his now-obsolete broomstick. The weary Bludger half-charged and half-fell towards its target, who smacked the ball at an odd angle. Cynthia saw her papa's strike propel the Bludger along a lateral path, and also saw it as it reduced speed and looped to return to its sender.  
  
Even though her father was closer to the Bludger than her, with the distance between the two quickly closing, Cynthia decided to take the incentive and streaked towards the moving target's path. Donovan, on the other hand, had put both of his eyes on the Bludger, and was determined to correct his aim and deliver the iron ball to his daughter properly. The only problem was that his last glimpse of Cynthia placed her a hundred feet above him in the air, not thirty feet away and closing. The returning Bludger whipped through the rising easterly wind, determined to return a blow to its attacker. Donovan had just raised his bat when Cynthia suddenly darted in front of him and deftly sent the ball flying with a sharp crack of wood on metal.  
  
The Bellona, in both speed and handling, outstripped Donovan's broom, and he could barely stop the arc of his swing into the side of his daughter's head, let alone the ensuing collision. Cynthia's slight frame couldn't help but be knocked from her post by Donovan's bulky mass, and for an unbelievable second it looked as if Cynthia was going to fall. He shouted in horror as she shrieked in terror, but the girl had one knee and foot secure, and Donovan held her other foot in an iron grip. "C'mon, Cyn!" begged her father, and she quickly regained enough of her senses to grab onto the front of the Bellona and haul herself back onto her broom.  
  
"Yeh alrigh'?" asked Donovan, his heart beating as quickly as his daughter's. Holding onto both Cynthia and her broom, he began to float downwards to the ground.  
  
She took a big gulp of air and swallowed it. "Aye," she said, blinking rapidly and trying to regain focus.  
  
When they had touched ground again, Donovan took his shook-up daughter by the shoulders and looked at her seriously "Wha' were yeh doin', lass? Yeh nearly took yerself awt, ne'ermind yer poor ol' Pa! D'ya think we'ure playin' Creaothceann or some keenda dayur-game?"  
  
"I- I thought I would hit it for yeh...," she stammered.  
  
"Di'n't I teach yeh tha' yeh wouldn' geh lookin' fer trouble?" continued Donovan, subtly yet distressingly raising his voice. "Yeh never should get tha' close!"  
  
"Bu' wha' if yeh were a Chaser? Or teh Seeker?" snapped Cynthia, more bracing than she had intended to sound.  
  
"THEY AREN' TEH UNS SWINGIN' A BLIMEY CLUB AT YEH!" he shouted, and then he regained something of his composure. "'Ad I bin an opposin' Bea'er an' no' yer ol' Pa, they would'a' swung anyway, no' carin' if they hit Bludger or lass. Yeh woulda bin hurt, an' it would be yer fault, teh! Yeh should be busy enou' keepin' the Bludger from yer Chasers an' Seekers, not from yer own team's Bea'ers. Teh devlish things-"  
  
Suddenly, Donovan realized that his practice Bludger, while having been hit rather far by Cynthia, should definitely have returned by then. He squinted in the direction it had been sent, remembering that the ten-inch iron balls would attack the nearest wizard, whether Beater or Keeper or spectator - if not jinxed otherwise, which was becoming the fashion. A far-off female scream from exactly the direction he was facing confirmed Donovan's worst fears (okay, so maybe it was really a reoccurring daydream he frequently had) of his Bludger finding Elfrida a target. Groaning, he jumped on Bellona and sped off to free his wife, leaving the dejected Cynthia with the old broomstick and her father's shouts still ringing in her ears.  
  
"'Oo does he think he is," she grumbled to herself, already forgetting how close to falling she had just been. All she could remember now was her fine hit in such close quarters, not how much danger she had put her father in. Even though Donovan rarely disciplined her, so she always listened when he did, she found his admonition unneeded. "I think he's gettin' jealous o' me," Cynthia concluded, mounting the weathered broom and following him back to the house.  
  
The Bellona was leaning against the house by the front door by the time she had coaxed the old broom back home. She propped the broomstick next to her own and went inside, fighting the easterly to close the door as she let her eyes adjust from the sunshine outside to the dim, fire-lit interior.  
  
Her mother was sitting at the kitchen table, her lips pursed venomously as she stirred tea. Donovan was closing the latches on the wooden box by the fireplace that held the Bludger, and the way his shoulders were drooped told Cynthia that he'd already gotten a talking-to from Elfrida.  
  
"Allie wrote," the black-haired woman announced, and she pointed to a parchment envelope addressed to Cynthia in purple ink.  
  
"Are yeh all righ'?" asked Cynthia, picking up the message.  
  
"Aye. I ducked rill quick till yer Pa came." She took a sip of black, bitter tea. "Are yeh?"  
  
Cynthia shot a look of perfidy at her father, who was trying to make his broad-shouldered, almost six-foot tall self look busy with the fire. "Well, o' course I'm -"  
  
"-Tryin' teh make yerself inteh some kaynd o' heroun'? Think yeh kin throw yerself in the trouble now, aye?" Elfrida looked calculatingly at her daughter.  
  
"Ma!" protested Cynthia. "Yeh an' Papa are makin' such a fuss o'er naught!"  
  
"'E're concerned abou' yeh, lass," said Donovan. "'E dun' wan' yeh teh get hurt." For once, Elfrida and Donovan had an agreement, and Cynthia was very alone on the other end. The yellow-haired girl felt betrayed.  
  
"Look!" shouted Cynthia, raising her arms and turning in a circle. "I'm all righ'! I'm okay! I di' a silly thin', but I'll beh more cayrful in teh future, alrigh'?"  
  
Her parents looked unconvinced. "See, weh can'd be takin' care o' yeh when yer a' Hogwarts-" began Elfrida, but Cynthia had had enough.  
  
"-An' thank Brid fer tha'!" She stormed up the stairs to her room, Allie's letter scrunched up unceremoniously in her small, clenched fist. The sound of her slamming door ricocheted downstairs.  
  
"Wha' have we go'?" asked Donovan, bewildered by the snarling beast his little girl had suddenly become.  
  
"A growin' lady," replied Elfrida. "An' it's gonna geh worse befur it gits better."  
  
"Don' tell me yeh were like tha' unce!" laughed Donovan.  
  
"She'll geh more an' more like me." Elfrida smiled, a subtle smile that softened her face and reminded Donovan of just why he had married her years ago. "A' leas' she'll be awhee at Hogwarts when it happens."  
  
Upstairs, Cynthia threw herself on her bed into a confused little knot of pubescent anger. She was mad at her parents for getting upset about a little stupid risk she had taken, and mad at herself for getting so worked up about it. She suddenly remembered the letter in her hand, and distracted herself enough to read it.  
  
Dear Cynthia,  
  
It's almost Hogwarts time! I'm so excited, I can't stop talking or thinking about it. I'm afraid of driving my mother and father silly. (Abbie stays out of the house all night and sleeps all day, so I rarely see him, let alone talk to him.) For studies, as you asked, memorization can't hurt! But if you really practice all day for Quidditch as you say, just having a good working knowledge of the texts should be sufficient. Think Ravenclaw thoughts! The last thing we want is to be stuck in Gryffindor with Abbie. The hat only put him there, I bet, because there isn't a House for lazybones like him. I asked him about Quidditch tryouts for you, and he grunted something about Bludgers. His friend Androgski is the Quidditch player, anyway, so he's the one to ask at school. Almost here! I can't wait! Don't bother writing back, okay? I'll see you at the opening feast. Be in Ravenclaw!  
  
Yours Truly,  
  
Allie D. 


	6. 1853: Tryouts

1853: Tryouts  
  
"You'll be fine!" Allie reassured her for the thirtieth time.  
  
"I'll beh sick!" replied Cynthia. She sure looked it.  
  
The two first-years were eating lunch, or at least trying to, on the far end of the Gryffindor Great Hall table in front of the professors. They had both been Sorted into the leonine House against their mental will, but the confounded Hat had insisted that both were true Gryffindors. The fortunate thing, Allie pointed out later, was that both of them had been "misplaced together".  
  
Today was Quidditch tryouts, and Cynthia was up against stiff competition. All the other Beaters who were trying out for the team were more than twice her size, it seemed, and all were male. After a quick perusal of his own miniature library (he nearly passed out in ecstasy in the Hogwarts one), Allie informed Cynthia that, although women Beaters were not uncommon in professional Quidditch, Hogwarts had never had a female Beater under the age of fifteen before. And those older girls, he had added with eyebrows raised and glasses falling all over the place, weren't exactly.feminine.  
  
There was still a glimmer of hope for the slight-framed Cynthia, though, as both positions were open. One of the previous years' Beaters had graduated, while the other, Abbie's friend Calvin Androgski, had moved to Keeper. There was also a little bit of hubbub about Cynthia, as the seemingly unresponsive Abbie had actually listened to his little brother's boasting about his "unstoppable" and "champion" friend and made all his older Quidditch friends bother her with questions. At first, she was nearly driven to tears with their taunting of her not even knowing what a Dopplebeater Defense or Snitchnip was. But, after a quick lesson of "ne'er lettin' 'em git teh yeh" written to her by her father (and the study of a book of Quidditch terminology kindly found by Allie), she could either answer or ignore her hecklers.  
  
Now, as the actual tryouts drew near, Cynthia was jealous of all the older boys and girls whom she knew to be the Quidditch players. They all looked calm and collected, laughing even, as they heartily ate their lunch. (And looked like they could keep it down, too.)  
  
"Eat," commanded Allie through a mouthful of turkey. He swallowed and stirred her stew with her spoon. "Don't make me force this nutrition down your throat."  
  
"Oh, Allie, c'mon." Cynthia took her spoon back. "I'm alleed teh eat what I wan'."  
  
"Gryffindor, may I have your attention please?" The House Head, a jovial, dark young man named Antonio Scarelli, knocked loudly on the table in front of Cynthia and Allie. All the younger students by the professor silenced immediately as a quiet spread down the table towards the far end. A crowd of seventh-years occupying the foot continued to talk. Scarelli coughed loudly, and after a few seconds, the older students finally obliged. "Will all Quidditch tryouts please follow me to the pitch."  
  
"Good luck, Cyn!" said Allie, grinning wide and pushing his glasses up his nose before giving her a thumbs-up.  
  
"I'm gonna make it teh the pitch, I'm gonna make it teh the pitch...," Cynthia chanted to herself, taking up the Bellona and stumbling over her own feet.  
  
~x~  
  
Just five hundred feet long and almost two hundred feet wide, the Quidditch pitch could have been hidden several times over in the MacLanley's northern field. However, unlike the slowly undulating and heathered or harvested acres Cynthia had been practicing over, this pitch was surrounded by massive, ominous spectator stands. The little confidence she had finally found scampered off into the distance as Cynthia imagined them full of people, all watching her.  
  
She ducked her head and ran to catch up with Scarelli and the rest of the Gryffindors, who had already walked onto the pitch. There was a dark wooden table on the boundary of the pitch, almost indistinguishable from the dark green grass. Four students, presumably the current team as Androgski was among them, took seats at the table. Cynthia wondered why they also carried brooms. Also at the table was Scarelli and another professor whom Cynthia assumed was the referee, or Quijudge. Tryouts stood awkwardly behind the table. A parchment folder appeared out of Scarelli's robes, and he opened it and read the first name aloud.  
  
"Cecilia Abner, fifth-year, Chaser." A poised-looking girl with dark blonde hair drawn back into a tight bun stepped forward, an old but polished broomstick in one hand. The Quijudge opened a wooden box and drew out a red leather ball with a foot-long loop for a handle. The students groaned, and Scarelli shot them a look as he took the Quaffle. "Do you want to have to try out for your own team?" he warned, swinging the ball at them expertly.  
  
Androgski, who was tall and had curly black hair, caught the Quaffle one- handed and hopped on his broom. He zoomed up to just in front of the goal baskets and swung the red ball to another team member, a curvy, red-haired girl with more freckles than Allie. The final Chaser was a skinny, limber- looking black boy, and he caught the girl Chaser's pass. He then swung it to Cecilia, who caught it firmly, but with obviously less confidence than the others had.  
  
The Quijudge blew his whistle, and suddenly the three Chasers were on full alert. Cynthia watched in disbelief as they suddenly functioned as one unit, and flew quickly towards Androgski, the Quaffle constantly changing hands. Suddenly, there was a flash of red, and it seemed as if Androgski had grabbed the Quaffle before had even thrown it towards the center basket.  
  
The whistle was blown again, and Cecilia flew down, looking furious at herself. "Thank you," said Scarelli, writing with a black quill on her sheet. She stomped off to her friends among the tryouts, who all patted her on the back. "Matthew Lovegood, sixth-year, Beater," announced Scarelli, turning the page.  
  
Cynthia gulped as a sandy-haired behemoth plodded forward and kicked off into the air on his broomstick. The two Chasers and Androgski moved closer to the ground as the Quijudge released the latches holding back one of the Bludgers. Cynthia outright gasped as the iron ball launched itself a hundred feet into the air, looking much more energetic and outright dangerous than the battered Bludger she had always used. She couldn't bring herself to look away from Matthew, who smacked the Bludger effortlessly.  
  
"Don't ever watch your competition," came a voice from behind Cynthia. She tore her eyes from the Beater tryout and turned around. A very kind-looking boy with a round face, pug nose, and big smile extended a chubby hand. "You're that first-year, am I right?" She nodded. "I'm Steve Merridew, and I'm a third-year. This is my first tryout, too." He smiled again as he shook her hand, and Cynthia decided that she liked him immediately.  
  
"Wha' d'yeh play?" asked Cynthia.  
  
"I'm a Chaser through and through," he replied, grinning like that was the greatest thing he had ever said. Looking over her shoulder at the descending Matthew, Steve nodded towards the pitch. "Look's like you're on. Good luck!" He flashed her another smile.  
  
Cynthia turned, just as Scarelli called her name. She took a deep breath and walked out to the pitch. Matthew handed her the heavy bat and passed her without eye contact. Getting a grip on the new bat, she launched herself up while keeping an eye on Androgski, who was holding the Bludger to his chest. When she got as high as the goal baskets, the whistle blew, and he threw the Bludger out to her.  
  
The iron ball flew straight for her head, and she had just gotten the bat raised when she had to strike. It was a weak hit, the Bludger skidding barely fifty feet away. Cynthia used the time to pose herself for the strong ball with the reinforced bat, and her second hit was a strong one that made her arms tingle. The Bludger careened all the way down the field, almost to the other goal baskets, and now Cynthia was in her element. When it came towards her a third time, she considered attempting a Backbeat, but decided instead to smack it vertically. As the ball shrank into the sky, Cynthia heard the whistle again, and smiled. She had done it!  
  
~x~  
  
"Look, Cynthia! We're reserves!" Steve grinned broadly and clapped his hands together as he looked again at the list.  
  
"We di'n't make it," said Cynthia dejectedly.  
  
"Are you kidding!?" He remained almost dementedly happy. "Being the reserve is just a raincheck for making the team! See?" He put one arm around Cynthia and pointed to the team names with the other hand. "The whole group is sixth- and seventh-years. Trust me on this, Cyn -" He put his hands on both her shoulders and looked straight into her blue eyes. "We'll both be on the team in a year."  
  
She thought it over for a few seconds, and smiled. "I kin wait." 


	7. 1854: Never a Dull Moment

1854: Never a Dull Moment  
  
"'Allo, Allie. What're yeh doin'?" asked Cynthia, perching on the arm of the chair Allie was occupying.  
  
"I'm reading up on what Dippet was telling us yesterday about the Quintapeds," he replied, looking up at her and adjusting his glasses.  
  
"Th' Hairy MacBoons? Me Pa tol' meh abou' em unce."  
  
"Is this story true?"  
  
"Yeh'd have teh ask 'em yerself. An' I dunt think they're the cunversational type."  
  
"Quidditch team!" Androgski stuck his head into the common room, half in and half out of the portrait hole. "I got the field tonight. Be on the pitch in fifteen minutes." He disappeared.  
  
"Hey, Saturday is the first game against Ravenclaw, isn't it?"  
  
"Aye. Hence t'extra practices." Cynthia raised her eyebrows. "I wish he'd given us a bit more warnin', I rilly need teh get tha' Potions essay done. Oh 'ell, I'll du't tomorreh. See yeh later, all righ'?" She got off the chair and followed Cecilia upstairs to the girls' dorm, and then went to her own room to throw on some more layers and a pair of breeches. Grabbing the Bellona from under her bed, and admiring the polish she had applied the previous night, she skipped downstairs and exited the Common Room with a wave to Allie.  
  
Steve, still smiling, caught up with her on the stairs going down. "Aren't you so excited?" he asked, tripping over his own feet in his exuberance. "Ravenclaw's gotten the House Cup as long as I've been here. But Henrietta Moxington graduated last year, and judging from that Hufflepuff game two weeks ago, her replacement is definitely not on the same level."  
  
"I think Androgski'll push us a lot this year," added Cynthia, following him through a hall and ducking behind a tapestry.  
  
"I agree. Sure, he's not the most pleasant of people, but he's really motivated."  
  
"It's hard teh imagine him as a Beater. He's rilly got a knack fer defense."  
  
"The choice was one more of necessity than of ability. He's fast in reflexes, but he waits until the last second to react."  
  
"What's so bad abou' that? It gives'm luts o' time to aim an' such."  
  
He opened the front doors for her. "If he misses the Bludger, he has no choice but to get hit real hard."  
  
Cynthia blinked. "An' 'e's...?"  
  
"Broken a few ribs, sprained a couple limbs, snapped a wand or two." He shrugged. "It happens."  
  
She decided to change the topic as they walked out to the pitch. "So, di' yeh see 'ow I did at t'first game?"  
  
"Yeah! You have excellent handling. The only thing I can suggest is aim improvement, but that'll come with in-game experience. That broom of yours is really top-of-the-line, isn't it?"  
  
"Aye!" Cynthia paused for a second, wondering if he would laugh. "I, er...I named her-it."  
  
"Really?" Steve held up his thick-handled broom for Cynthia. "I named my baby too. She's the Vega Omega, because she's the end of all other Quidditch stars. Isn't she a beauty?"  
  
"Ach, sure she is. Mine is th'Bellona. Fer no reason, rilly."  
  
"Bellona? That's a beautiful name."  
  
"Merridew! MacLanley! You're late!" Androgski looked at his pocket watch and up at them disapprovingly.  
  
"By a minute, Calvin," replied Steve coolly.  
  
"Every minute counts." He turned to the rest of the players, who were talking amongst themselves. "We're going to do maneuver drills for about a while, then a scrimmage until dark. So everyone on your brooms and let's start with laps." There was a pause, and then everyone kicked off into the sky and began a clockwise run around the pitch. Androgski tapped his throat with a Loudspeaker spell and boomed out maneuvers, and Cynthia found her mind clearing as she focused entirely on looping and fishtailing among her teammates. Before she knew it, Androgski had released the practice Snitch, the Quaffle, and one Bludger, and the team members broke up into their individual responsibilities.  
  
Cynthia and the veteran Beater, Matthew Lovegood, had developed an excellent method of practice. One would enmesh him or herself within the rest of the action of the team, while the other would be aiming for team members for the first Beater to protect. They would switch pretty frequently, and sometimes, when they really got into the moment, they couldn't remember or tell which position they were taking.  
  
The sun had set and twilight was slowly fading into night when Androgski called in his loud voice that practice was over. Matthew had just launched the Bludger to the far side of the pitch, and Cynthia decided to wait in the air for the ball to return. She was planning on catching it and bringing it down, a neat trick Androgski had shown Matthew but somehow "forgotten" to teach to the female Beater.  
  
A few seconds had passed, and Cynthia squinted into the falling dark. Did Matthew get it already? No, she could see his wide shape on the ground behind her, and he had never gone towards where he had hit the Bludger. There was something odd by the base of the goal baskets, though, and Cynthia urged the Bellona closer to figure out what the dark shape was.  
  
Suddenly, there was a whoosh of air, and Cynthia saw the Bludger pelt past her right ear. She turned around and set herself up to roll with the Bludger's attack, broom and all. The iron ball turned around and swung through the air towards the only Quidditch player left in the air. Cynthia braced herself, and -  
  
-BAM! The Bludger was in her hands, and dragging her backwards. She thought both her elbows were broken, but she curled her arms and body around the Bludger and guided the broom down with her legs. It felt as if a compacted Hungarian Horntail was in her grasp, but she managed to get out of the air and onto the pitch.  
  
"Androgski! Look! I caugh' it!" Cynthia called loudly, trying to keep both of her feet on the ground as the Bludger struggled against her. She looked to where she had seen the team last, and to her great surprise no one was there. "Androgski? Steve? Matthew?"  
  
"I got that," came Matthew's voice from behind her, and she whirled around. "I think you better get over there," he added, motioning with his head towards the dark shape now surrounded by Quidditch players as he took the Bludger from her."  
  
"Cynthia!" called Steve. "Cyn, help!"  
  
Cynthia got the horrible feeling something was terribly wrong and, leaving the Bellona on the ground, ran towards the goal baskets. Cecilia, Androgski, and the rest of the team was gathered around someone sprawled out on the ground. Steve grabbed her hand with his left and waved his wand with his right. "Lumos!"  
  
"ALLIE!" screamed Cynthia.  
  
~x~  
  
"I'm so, so sorry!" sobbed Cynthia.  
  
"Cyn! I dow! I dow! Id dwas an accidend!" Allie, a large white bandage covering his nose, was sitting on a bed in the hospital wing. It was the morning after the night he decided to see his friend practice, and instead became part of the action. He was knocked unconscious by the impact of the Bludger right on the bridge of his nose, but fortunately, the nurse told him between regaining consciousness and falling asleep, that was the only thing that had been broken - albeit a few times.  
  
It really wasn't Cynthia's fault, or anyone else's for that matter, but the sight of Allie lying cold on the ground with his face an almost unrecognizable bloody mess had sent her into a marathon of hysterics. She had been somewhere between wailing and sniffling for nearly twelve hours, save the five or six hours of uneasy sleep, and the Headmistress had fortunately given them both the day off from lessons.  
  
The nurse appeared and went right to Allie's bed, as he was the only patient in the infirmary. Cynthia snuffled and rubbed her bright red nose as she made way for the nurse. The woman asked Allie how he felt, and he replied that the only discomfort he had was the bandage.  
  
"I can take care of that," replied the nurse kindly, and she drew out her wand. She tapped the plaster on its edges, and when she had come full circle, she was able to lift the bandage from his face easily. Underneath was a translucent green jelly that she had applied the night before, and using a towel, she wiped it gently off. "Oh, that looks much better, dear."  
  
Cynthia moved one finger from the hands she had put over her eyes. Allie, wiping the last of the jelly from the creases next to his nostrils, looked much, much better than Cynthia had ever imagined. In fact, save for some new, slightly purple, and rather prominent crooks in his long nose, he looked exactly the same. She brought her hands from her face and gave him a big hug. "Allie! Oh, Allie! Yer as good's new!"  
  
He smiled as Cynthia pulled back from the embrace, and grabbed his glasses off the nightstand. Tenderly, he placed them on his nose and, upon finding no discomfort, tipped his head forward. For a second, he blinked rapidly, and then burst into laughter. Cynthia joined him. Even though his glasses should have slid to the floor already, a new bump in his nose miraculously held them in place. 


	8. 1856: Sunshinin'

1856: Sunshinin'  
  
"You honestly mean to tell me that you don't know the difference between Albertus Magnus and Edwardus de Johnnes?"  
  
"They're both famous wizards who leeved in th'medieval agus."  
  
"Yes, but - one brought an arson spell against the French in the Hundred Years' War, and the other built a bronze head which was smashed by his student when -"  
  
"Was th' head guee livin' in Britain?"  
  
"Well, yes -"  
  
"They're both famous Brit'sh wizards who leeved in th'medieval agus. Tha's all yeh need the know."  
  
"Cyn, I thought you said you'd help me study."  
  
"Naw, I said I'd help yeh rilax. Yeh can' learn naught whin yer all uptight, aye?"  
  
Cynthia and Allie were sitting in the warm, late springtime grass growing on the top of the hill at the end of the main street in Hogsmeade. Both had a chilled jug of Butterbeer, but the latter was busy poring through three thick volumes while the former was examining a wayside dandelion.   
  
"I'm still surprised you've barely studied. After that Transfiguration grade last -"  
  
"Ach! Yeh said yeh'd ne'er speak o' that agane!" Cynthia threw the yellow flower onto his history book. "I'm goin' o'er me notes. Yeh know I took good notes."  
  
"But the application of Transfiguration? Can you make parchment into butterflies yet?"  
  
"'Ell...no' virry pretty uns.... Whee don' yeh just leave meh alone, Mistur I-Kin-Change-a-Lamp-Inteh-a-Gnome? Besides," she added, taking a swig of her drink, "I 'ave more imp'rtant things teh worry abit than f'nals."  
  
"Like Quidditch?"  
  
She grinned. "Li'Quidd'tch."  
  
A breath-like zephyr blew gently over the boy and girl on the hill. Fresh, strong sunlight warmed the entire town, and the spring-fevered students were joyous in the street and in the shops. It was a euphoric moment, decided Cynthia, as she watched a bumblebee meander through the grass by her left leg.  
  
"Okay, that's it. You're right. I'm wasting a beautiful day on studying."  
  
Cynthia stared at Allie. "Yer no' gunna ge' uptigh' abou' studying, are yeh?"  
  
"Well, later," he replied, stuffing the books into his bag. "In more inclement weather."  
  
The blonde girl tugged on the ribbons holding her braids in place and worked her fingers through the three ropes that were perpetually plaited together on either side of her face. She shook her head a few times, and her kinky, snaky hair suddenly became a wavy, loose sheet of gold. Hastily, she pulled it back into a long, thick ponytail descending from the nape of her neck, as if annoyed by her inevitably feminine hair. But it was enough for Allie, who suddenly saw Cynthia as...a girl.  
  
Cynthia stretched out all her limbs and laid down in the grass, facing up towards the sunshine. She closed her eyes with a little smile, and Allie extended himself out next to her.   
  
"Hey, Allie," she said after a little while.   
  
"Mmm?" Allie was trying to take a sip of Butterbeer while lying down.  
  
"Wha' d'yeh wan' teh deh when yeh ge' autta Hogwarts?"  
  
He put his bottle down and wiped his upper lip. He opened his mouth and looked like he was going to say something, but he then closed it and looked at Cynthia. "You know, don't you?"  
  
She looked at him with an exasperated glance. "Whee would I ask yeh, then?"  
  
"Okay, okay." He watched a small puffy cloud slowly eat the sun. "I want to be a Professor."  
  
"Ach! Rilly!" Cynthia giggled. "I couldn' see tha' un from a kilo awee!"  
  
Allie pushed her in mock anger, grinning all the while. "So then why did you ask me, you twit?"  
  
"It's funnier teh hear i'from yeh." She made a funny face and put her hand over her heart, faking earnestness. "I wan' teh beh a Professur," she squeaked, mocking Allie.  
  
"Oh yeah, Cyn. Hey, hey, I have a question, too...what are you going to do when you've graduated?"  
  
Cynthia stopped giggling and looked at Allie with a burning somberness. "I...wan' teh beh...the Min'ster o' Magic."  
  
Allie was shocked. "You're serious?"  
  
She continued to look at him with sudden sincerity. And, just as suddenly, she collapsed into laughter.  
  
"Me! The Min'ster! Ha!" She closed her eyes and threw her head back into the re-emerging sunlight. "An' the best par' was yeh believin' it!"  
  
"Come on, Cyn. I know what you really want to be."  
  
"Oh yeah? Wha' then, Professur?"  
  
"A Quidditch player."  
  
Cynthia stopped laughing and looked at Allie, frowning. "Aye, tha's wha' I wan' teh beh. I dunno if it's wha' I kin deh. Tha's whee...that's whee I ahsk'd."  
  
"Are you kidding? You're one of the best Beaters on the field! You played in your second year, for Balor's sake!"  
  
"But...pr'fessional Quidd'tch? I dunt want teh put all me bets on me playin'. I'us readin' abou' fam's Bea'ers an' most o' 'em get hurt or quit by age therty. I dunt know if I kin live on tha' fer the res' o' me life."  
  
"I think you could! Cyn, you've got serious talent. Real ability. And you take half as many risks as anyone out there, but do just as well as anyone in Hogwarts. You'll be able to make a career out of smacking Bludgers, believe me. What kind of life do you imagine living, anyway?"  
  
"A teeny house in th'middle o' no'ere. Nay," she replied, changing her mind, "a teeny house bee a lo' o' other wizards. I dunt want me kids livin' so outta tawch wi'th'magical comm'nity as I was."  
  
"Yeah," replied Allie, thinking about it. "I could live there, too."   
  
He really meant to say "in a similar place", but what was said was said. And, maybe, he thought later, it wasn't an accident at all. 


	9. 1857: The Promise Kiss

1857: The Promise Kiss  
  
"Cynthia MacLanley...," said Steve Merridew, almost breathless, "you look stunning!"  
  
He was at the bottom of the grand front staircase, leaning against the bottom banister in formal black dress robes. He patted his waxed-down hair and put his hand on his cheek. "I am...amazed!"  
  
"I thin' I'm gunna trip," Cynthia admitted, making her way down the steps with one hand on the rail and the other lifting her skirts. She wore an indigo, very long dress with layers of dark blue skirts falling gracefully from her waist. A silvery-blue shawl topped the shoulder-less dress and matching indigo extra-long gloves. Her blonde hair, almost white from summers of Quidditch practice, was pulled back and dropped in curly tendrils around her face.  
  
Steve extended an arm to her, and she swished her skirts onto the ground floor with a flourish as she touched the bottom step. "Than' yeh fer wai'in', Steve," she said, leaning forward to give him a chaste peck on the cheek.  
  
He moved the arm he had extended to her down to her and slid his other hand to her exposed neck, pulling her mouth to his. He kissed her passionately and openmouthed, pressing his sensuous lips into her trembling ones. He pulled her away, and she kept her blue eyes closed for a moment afterwards. "There's a lot more where that came from," he whispered. "But first, there's this ball thing we have to do."  
  
Cynthia opened her eyes and licked her lips. Steve moved his hand from her neck to his side, and took her arm again with his own. "Shall we, then?" he asked, turning to go to the Great Hall.  
  
They passed other couples and students milling about in the corridors, some speaking German, some conversing in French, and all dressed in dark-colored finery.  
  
"Elle est Parisienne, que pense-tu?" mumbled some Beauxbatons students, pointing to a quite obviously overdressed young girl wearing what looked like a sparkling white crinoline cake.  
  
Steve let Cynthia enter the Great Hall before him, and he followed right behind her. She gasped at the sight of the huge room's walls and floor lit only by a golden glow emanating from the walls and small candles in the branches of massive evergreens interspersed with tiny circular dinner tables. Soft, dreamy instrumental music wafted through the air from a ten- member orchestra playing on a stage on the other side of the hall.  
  
"Look, there's Allie," said Cynthia, pointing a gloved finger towards the red-haired, bespectacled boy sitting by himself by the orchestra. She led Steve through the maze of tables.  
  
"Oh, the bookworm couldn't get himself a girl? That's real surprising," he said, laughing.  
  
"Steve," warned Cynthia, but Allie had seen them. He stood up and pulled out a chair for Cynthia, who sat down with a "Thank yeh". Allie was going to push her in, but Steve had lain a large hand on the back of the chair.  
  
"If you don't mind," said Allie, with a hint of steel in his voice.  
  
"Allow me," replied Steve, even icier.  
  
There was a brief moment where sparks flew between the two boys. Cynthia broke it by announced "Gen'lemin, I kin deh I'meself," and pulling herself in to the table.  
  
Allie sat down on her left and Steve took the seat to her right. Cynthia took up a menu and opened it, hoping to lead the boys away from their sudden outright animosity.  
  
Ever since Cynthia had started courted Steve, Allie had made it obvious that he thought the black-haired boy was a creep. What he didn't know what that Steve thought the same about the skinny, freckled Allie. Cynthia had coped by dividing her academic and Quidditch world between the two oil-and- water boys. Now, she saw that the night would become a battlefield between the two, and that was something she could definitely live without.  
  
~x~  
  
Hot and sweet, Steve pressed her body into his own as they embraced in a deep kiss. Caught up in the passionate moment, surrounded by the perfumy scent of the magic roses, Cynthia felt slightly intoxicated. Focused on Steve's slowly moving along hers, Cynthia didn't notice his hand sliding down the front of her chest until it was almost too late.  
  
"Stop," she said, pulling away and trying to pull his hand away from her torso.  
  
"What's the matter?" he asked, more taunting that concerned.  
  
"Dunt deh tha'," she replied, and he pulled his hand away slowly.  
  
"Cyn-" Steve pleaded.  
  
"Steve, no."  
  
"Alright then," he complied, drawing away from her on the marble bench. "If you won't yield that way-" he suddenly laid her flat on her back, with one hand pressing hard on the base of her throat, so she could neither moved nor scream, "- I'll make you yield in another."  
  
As he moved down onto her, Cynthia gasping for breath and mind racing, all she could realize was the horrible knowledge that she was about to be violated, and that Steve had probably done this before. She closed her eyes, tears leaking out, and she flailed her arms uselessly. Steve fumbled with her stockings, and image of her mother suddenly appeared in her panicking mind.  
  
"Cyn, when yeh git a bi' oldur, yer gunna feend tha' men rilly only wan un thing."  
  
"GET YOUR FILTHY HANDS OFF HER, YOU BASTARD!!"  
  
Cynthia opened her eyes to see Allie standing over Steve with his wand pointed straight at the offender's heart. A cold fire blazed in his eyes, the likes of which Cynthia had never seen before. Steve rose up quickly, snarling at the intruder.  
  
"Allie, just because you can't -"  
  
"Shut the hell up, Merridew. Get away from Cynthia, now."  
  
"Think you're so tough now, huh? Why don't you put that stick down and fight me like a man?"  
  
"I wouldn't fight like the dog you are," replied Allie, his jaw set.  
  
"You're not that strong, but that doesn't surprise me." Steve took a step towards him, hands raised in fists. "No wonder Cynthia loves me. You're nothing but a study partner to her, book boy." He jabbed a thick finger into Allie's chest. Allie stood his ground, the wand still aimed at Steve's heart.  
  
"Tha's no' true!" cried Cynthia, having found her voice again. "Will yeh both jus' geh away from meh!"  
  
"Shut up, harlot!" shouted Steve, his blood rising.  
  
"I ne'er wan' the speak the yeh agayn, Steven!" Cynthia shouting, coming to her feet. "Yer a durty pig an' I hope yeh dee fer wha' yeh treed t'night!"  
  
"You!" screamed Steve, turning back to her.  
  
"There's no point in fighting her or me," said Allie, calmly but firmly. "You're going to be expelled for sure. You're of age, too...wouldn't be surprised if you spent some time in Azkaban, too." Allie was obviously bluffing, but Steve had slight look of worry.  
  
"I hate you both," growled Steve, and he spat at Allie. "Have fun with that bitch, and good luck loosening her up." He turned and crashed through the rose garden towards Hogwarts, interrupting busy couples and younger students talking.  
  
"Cyn, are you all right?" asked Allie, tucking his wand into his pocket and making her sit down again on the bench.  
  
"Aye. Jus' shook. Nothin' happen'd, but i'yeh hadn' come...." She didn't complete the thought.  
  
"I'm so sorry."  
  
"Abou' what?"  
  
"I knew he'd try to pull something on you sooner or later. I can't believe I let you court him."  
  
"Yer no' me policemin, Allie. I am me awn pe'son, an' yeh naught anyun' kin tell meh wha' the deh. Dunt beh sorry."  
  
Some time passed in silence. Allie took Cynthia's hands in his own and kissed her fingers. "Cynthia, I have to tell you something." She looked at him, the half-moon's light dimly lighting his face, and he took off his glasses and drew a shaky breath. "We've been friends for four -four and a half- years. Best, inseperable, though-it-all friends, right?" She nodded. "For...for a year -more, actually, I...I have been...been thinking." He stopped, trying to form his thoughts.  
  
"Yeah, an'?" prompted Cynthia. "Yeh deh a lo'a thinkin', yeh know."  
  
"Cynthia, I love you." He looked down at the ground, ashamed. "It's useless, I-"  
  
It all came in a flash to Cynthia. The hours of conversations in the Common Room. The dozens of letter through summer times, all saved in a box under her bed. The awkward, cute way Allie always congratulated her after Quidditch games. The bumps in Allie's nose. The years of memories. The way he had boldly stood his ground, risked his life even, for her honor. And then, Cynthia realized it.  
  
"-I love yeh, too." She smiled and looked into his eyes, blue glass meeting blue glass. He returned the smile and inched in closer.  
  
"Then...," he whispered, now a millimeter from her mouth. She turned away.  
  
"Allie...I can't. It's teh soon."  
  
"Do you love me?"  
  
She took his hands this time, and placed his fingertips on her sternum. "I love yeh 'ere." She moved his hands to her forehead. "But I hurt 'ere."  
  
"I...I want to take your pain away," he replied, knowing he sounded stupid.  
  
"Onley I kin deh tha'." She let go off his hands and kissed him softly on the forehead. A small silver star appeared on his brow for an instant, and then faded. "Tha's a Promise Kiss. Me mum taugh' tha' teh meh, i's ol' Pict magic. I'ill seh i' on yeh 'til I complete me promise. I promise tha' I'ill love yeh. Jus' give meh teem."  
  
He nodded, putting on his glasses, and he put his arm around her waist and held her right hand with his free one. They looked up at the stars and the night sky, and the Promise Kiss on Allie's forehead shined brighter to both of them than the moon. 


	10. 1859: Memoriæ

1859: Memoriæ  
  
"Happy last Quidditch game day!" greeted Allie loudly, giving Cynthia a sweet kiss.  
  
"It's jus' me las' gahm a' Hogwarts," she replied, running her finger down his crooked nose playfully.  
  
"Well, it's the championship, and your last performance as a Gryffindor."  
  
"Where did yeh fin' th'time outta studyin' fer N.E.W.T.'s fer seein' it tehday?"  
  
"I always have time for you," he said in a mawkish tone, grinning saccharinely.  
  
"Ulk, dunt e'en joke meh leek tha'." Cynthia made a face at his simpering sarcasm.  
  
"Oh, you think I'm joking?" he asked, giving her a final, long kiss.  
  
He moved the tapestry aside and they stepped out of the hidden alcove in the hallway. Together, they walked down a flight of steps and through a small side corridor, coming to the main staircase. Lots of students were there, most moving towards the Great Hall, and almost everyone was wearing either red or blue.  
  
It was Cynthia's second year when Gryffindor finally took Ravenclaw, the securely established Quidditch Cup champion, out. They came back triumphant again her third year, but Gryffindor took the lead her fourth and hadn't relented since. No one could quite tell who was the underdog, and it made for a very exciting competition. Cynthia knew some of the hype was for her, not only because she was Captain. She had made an art of being Beater in her later years, and many ignored the Quaffle entirely to watch her massacre the Bludgers time and time again.  
  
Cynthia and Allie entered the Great Hall, and the Gryffindor table, a block of red, cheered loudly. "C-Y, N-T-H-I, A-M-A, C-L-A, N-L-E-Y!" shouted some of the younger students, obviously pleased by their cheer. A first-year girl threw red confetti at Cynthia, and then ran away, quite embarrassed.  
  
"Than' yeh! Than' yeh!" Cynthia kept saying. She tried to sit at the end of the long bench, but Allie did a clever trick of magic and conjured a chair to seat her at the foot of the table. Usually, professors frowned on anyone taking up the short ends of House tables, but as Scarelli, clad all in red, was busy glaring at the blue-dressed Ravenclaw House Head, no one objected.  
  
Lunch was soon served, and Cynthia ate heartily. She felt so confident that her team would be victorious, either by a win or a smashing performance, that nothing could phase her. After she had polished off her second piece of bread and finished her goblet of apple juice, a witch she didn't know tapped her on the shoulder. The woman bent forward to talk to Cynthia through the unusually loud chatter of the Great Hall, and Cynthia saw a flash of gold and green beneath her traveling cloak. "Hello, Cynthia. I'm Tracey," the woman said, shaking Cynthia's hand. "May I speak to you in the hallway?"  
  
"Aye!" replied Cynthia, standing up. She glanced at Allie, who raised his eyebrows at her with a smile. "If yeh'll excuse meh."  
  
Cynthia followed Tracey outside the Great Hall, trying to remain professional but doing backflips on the inside. If this witch was who Cynthia thought she was-  
  
"Cynthia, I represent the Welsh Quidditch club of the Holyhead Harpies." She unbuttoned her cloak dramatically to reveal dark green robes with a golden talon shining on her chest. "We are six and a half centuries old, and among our many major triumphs is the tradition-"  
  
"-O' admi'in' only witches," finished Cynthia, finally bubbling over. "Yeh've wen th'Lehgue se'entehn teems th'cent'ry, the latest in 'fifteh- fehr, and yeh, Tracey Griffiths, 'ave bin pe'sonally respons'ble fer o'er a 'undred goals wi'in yer career."  
  
"You've heard of us?" laughed the older woman. "Then I have excellent news for you, Miss MacLanley.  
  
"Normally, the process of signing onto a team isn't begun until June, with decisions in late August. However, in your case, the Harpies are interested in inviting you to join us next autumn, and the decision is entirely your own."  
  
Cynthia gawked. "Yeh mehn...I...?"  
  
"Have been accepted to the Harpies."  
  
She put a hand to her gaping mouth. "Bu'...how di' yeh...?"  
  
"We've been private guests to Hogwarts Quidditch tournaments. I personally have attended three, not including today. Your House Head, Antonio Scarelli, was the one who contacted us first - I was in Gryffindor with him years ago. We all agree that your performance is remarkable, especially Caery Hill, whom you will be replacing next season." Tracey smiled. "That is, of course, if you're interested."  
  
"Are yeh kiddin'?" Cynthia shook her head, afraid to wake up and ruin this perfect dream. "I would't miss this fer anythin'." A thought crossed her mind. "Wha' keend of schedule deh yeh folleh?"  
  
"We have intensive practices for five hours five days a week from September through October, and then a game approximately once every two weeks, with practice as necessary between, from November through June."  
  
"An' I kin Apparate teh an' from, righ'?" asked Cynthia, who was planning on getting licensed right after graduation.  
  
"Yes. You'll find the life of a Quidditch player one of hard work, but with sure rewards."  
  
"Oh, I've fahnd tha' alrea'y. Where deh yeh seen?"  
  
Tracey produced a parchment written in green ink, along with a golden quill. Cynthia scanned it and found that the agreement was quite binding. "If yeh'll alleh meh teh talk this o'er with some'un," said Cynthia, stepping back into the Great Hall and motioning Allie over.  
  
"What is it?" asked Allie.  
  
"The 'Oly'ead 'Arpies wan' meh," she said quietly, motioning over to the woman, who was trying to occupy herself with a piece of architecture.  
  
"Oh, Cyn, that's great!" Allie took her hands in his. "I'm so happy for you."  
  
"The schedule i'n't as bad as I though'," she continued, "bu' i's still a commi'ment."  
  
"Cyn, there's no way I would stop you now. We can work around it. Besides, I won't exactly get the best hours working here." He pointed to Tracey. "You tell that Harpy that she better be thanking her lucky stars that they're getting Cynthia MacLanley on their side."  
  
"I'ill." She gave his hands a squeeze. "I'm so exceeted." Cynthia stepped around Allie and towards Tracey. "Kin I 'ave tha', plehs?"  
  
"Welcome to the Harpies, Cynthia," replied Tracey, and she presented her the parchment and quill.  
  
~x~  
  
"The dey couldn' be mare pehrfec'," Cynthia thought as she sent a Bludger flying for the Ravenclaw seeker above her with a crisp uppercut. "No, ma' tha' Emily catchin' the Snitch and Gryffind'r winnin'."  
  
It sure looked possible. The Chasers, working all their practice moves and a few Cynthia were sure had just been invented on the field, were practically unstoppable, and the Keeper was doing a fine job for the few times the Quaffle had ever even come close to her. Pretty soon, Cynthia realized as she jabbed a slower moving Bludger with the very tip of her bat, Emily wouldn't even have to catch the Snitch for them to win.  
  
A Ravenclaw Beater who was the closest thing to competition Cynthia had faced all year slammed a Bludger at her, but she placed both hands at either ends of the bat and thrusted it right back at him with her tongue out in derision. She swerved the Bellona around as he sought an easier target.  
  
There was a flutter of gold off to Cynthia's left, and she glanced down, thinking it was the Snitch. Instead, it was the Harpy talon emblazoned on Tracey Griffiths' chest, and Cynthia saw the professional player smile at her before she turned her attention back to the game.  
  
Cynthia scanned the pitch for the Bludgers, and saw the other Gryffindor Beater defending Emily as she looked desperately for the Snitch. The Beater was a funny fourth-year boy who wasn't extraordinary, but very dedicated, and Cynthia hoped the best for him when she was gone. She wondered why he was doing individual defense, but sure enough Cynthia saw the weaker Ravenclaw Beater send a Bludger her way. The Gryffindor could fend it off easily, but Cynthia realized that both Ravenclaw Beaters, ignoring their obvious loss with the Quaffle, were doing anything they could to keep Gryffindor from claiming the Snitch, too.  
  
She flew in next to the Gryffindor. "Go ge' their See'er!" she shouted, motioning with her bat to the other side of the field. "I go' Emily!"  
  
He nodded and flew off, leaving Cynthia with the weaker Ravenclaw trying to cover her and the stronger one somewhere on the Gryffindor side of the field chasing a Bludger. Cynthia hoped that Tracey was watching the intelligent strategy, somewhere in the stands below.  
  
"Cyn!" hissed Emily. Cynthia couldn't hear it through the wind rushing in her ears. "Cyn!" whispered Emily, louder and more urgently. Cynthia heard it this time, and looked at the Seeker. Emily looked up and over Cynthia's right shoulder quickly, almost accidentally, but Cynthia knew what it meant. She had seen the Snitch, but didn't want to attract undue attention to it.  
  
Cynthia saw the Bludger the stronger Ravenclaw had sought speeding towards the back of Emily's head, and she rushed forward to protect the Seeker. Thinking fast, Cynthia saw that she would have to hit the Bludger at the last minute to distract him from assaulting Emily as she went for the Snitch. She shouted, "Up on threh!" and raised her bat. "Un."  
  
Just then, the weaker Ravenclaw deflected the Bludger circling the Ravenclaw Seeker towards Cynthia's back. "Teh."  
  
Cynthia adjusted the grip on her bat and readied for a solid, definite hit. The Bludger from the strong Beater was getting close.  
  
The Bludger from the weaker Beater was closer.  
  
"Threh!" shouted Cyn, just before the Bludger behind her slammed full force into the space between her shoulder blades. A fraction of a second later, the Bludger she had been keeping both eyes on smashed into her face. The force of the two impacts knocked her from the Bellona, and, before the eyes of hundreds of horrified spectators, her limp body fell a hundred feet through the air.  
  
There was a sickening crunch, and, with an awful, terrible, and absolutely depressing silence, everyone in the stadium knew it.  
  
Cynthia MacLanley was dead.  
  
The silence was broken.  
  
"NOOOOOOOO!!!"  
  
Allie half-ran and half-fell down the stairs to the ground pitch, and, his mind and blood numbingly cold, he stumbled across the field to Cynthia's broken, twisted body. He threw himself to the ground, tears pouring from his eyes and inhuman cries uttering from his mouth, and he drew his beloved to his chest. Her face, broken inwards by the Bludger and lolling hideously off her broken neck, looked nothing like the woman he loved. He closed his eyes and buried his head in her hair, sobbing all the while, and not caring about the blood that was drenching his clothes and body. She...she was...she was....  
  
"Allie?" called the Headmistress, five feet and a million miles away.  
  
He responded with a racking sob, his arms tightly clenched around the still- warm body.  
  
"Allie, she's gone." Scarelli was standing over him.  
  
"NO, SHE'S NOT!!" Allie raised his head, wet from tears and Cynthia's blood. "YOU CAN DO ANYTHING WITH MAGIC! MAKE HER COME BACK!"  
  
"You can't bring the dead back to life!!"  
  
"SHE'S NOT DEAD! SHE'S...SHE'S...." He gasped and put his hands over his face. "SHE'S DEAD!!" he screamed through his hands.  
  
The Headmistress moved a step forward and reached out towards Allie.  
  
"Don't touch me," he snarled.  
  
"Give him time," said Scarelli softly.  
  
Allie closed his eyes and lifted her disfigured forehead to his lips. He kissed it softly, and a gold star appeared there for a moment. "I will never forget you," he whispered, so quietly that only Cynthia could hear him. "I promise."  
  
~x~  
  
"Allie, I...I'm not very good at these kinds of things, I'm afraid." Scarelli stood behind Allie, who was watching a summer rain fall outside the window of his dormitory. "I.... Here.... This.... Cynthia would have wanted you to have this, I think." The young man turned, and Scarelli saw his eyes were pink. The professor held out the Bellona to him. Allie nodded and took it from him slowly, clutching the shaft tightly and turning back to the window.  
  
"We graded your N.E.W.T.s," announced Scarelli hesitantly. "We -we were thinking about taking...the situation into consideration -"  
  
" -Please don't," interrupted Allie, his voice cracking from its silence.  
  
"We barely can. You received twelve N.E.W.T.s, which is more than enough to become a Professor here. We are all humbled by your efforts."  
  
Allie nodded, and for a while, there was no sound but a soft swish of rain outside.  
  
"Twelve?" said Allie finally.  
  
"Yes," replied Scarelli.  
  
A faint smile cracked Allie's face. "Cynthia would have liked that."  
  
~x~  
  
The next year, Allie became an associate professor of Charms, and then the Charms professor the year after that. He remained Charms professor for twenty years, eventually moving into Transfiguration, his favorite subject, when the older professor became Headmaster. During these switches, the Bellona was always the last thing to leave, and the first fixture up. Students who had been at the Quidditch match and had called him Allie had never asked him about it, but soon they graduated and the increasingly antique broomstick became an object of much speculation. Some said it was from their professor's wilder Quidditch days, some said it was a present from some town he had saved from magical disaster, and some thought he had just put it up to make people wonder about it. He did nothing to stop the rumors, and soon, only in him did the memory of the Scottish Quidditch star live on.  
  
His office became cluttered with more and more collected treasures, not a small amount from his battles with Grindelwald and other Dark wizards, and the Bellona slowly slid from place of pride to just another memory Allie carried with him. Eventually, when he took the very old Headmaster's place, he had no room to put Cynthia's broomstick on display. "I'm sorry, Cynthia," he said out loud, wrapping the Bellona in oilcloth and placing it gently in a storage box. "I haven't forgotten you." He took a deep breath. "But I'm not your Allie anymore. I'm Headmaster Albus Dumbledore now."  
  
He shut the lid, and for a moment he saw a gold star shine in his mind's eye. 


End file.
